by Lee Boschen
"My daughter."
"You're married?"
Suddenly angry, she leaned across the table, her words a harsh whisper. “Do you think I'd be messing around with another man if I were married?"
"Uh—” He leaned back, away from her anger. “No, I ... Leslie, I'm sorry if I've offended you, but I don't know anything about you."
She relaxed as her anger evaporated. Of course he didn't know anything about her. How could she expect him to? He didn't remember all those weeks they had stared at each other across the Prince George restaurant. Should she tell him about them? No, she decided, not just yet. It wouldn't help, and it would probably only make him feel even more frustrated. Still, she mused, perhaps it would be a good idea to go back to the restaurant. Someone there might know his name.
Then she corrected herself—she wasn't messing around with him. She was only trying to—what was she trying to do? Why hadn't she taken him straight from the hospital to the sheriff's office?
She decided to worry about that later. “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snapped at you. Of course you don't know anything about me. I was married. It was a long time ago. Now, what about your—"
"Coleen ... she lives with her father?"
Leslie recoiled, shocked at his question. How could he imagine her daughter living with that monster Alex? It was a jolt to realize again that he didn't recall seeing her and Coleen together in the Prince George. He'd just told her, ‘I don't know anything about you.’ She sighed. “Coleen lives with me. She's at her grandmother's for the week end.” She smiled. “The house is so quiet.” Then, pausing, she added, “At least it was before someone dumped you into my ditch."
"Yeah.” His gaze played across her face. He did that a lot, she thought. Like he was memorizing her. Or was he trying to remember her?
His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “You wouldn't believe how I hate all this."
She nodded her sympathy. “Sure. I can imagine how it—” She stopped; her eyes narrowed. “Just what is it you don't like? That you have to depend on a mere woman?"
He looked down, away from her, but then, after a moment, his lips curled in a wry grin. “Yeah. That's part of it. But mostly it's being helpless. Not knowing who's after me. Not being able to, well, to fight back."
He raised his eyes, and his look captured her. “But where did you get the idea you're a ‘mere’ woman? Do you mean mere as in ‘ordinary?'” He waved a dismissive hand. “That's just not so. Ordinary women don't take charge in situations like this. They'd have left me at the hospital, or carted me to the sheriff's office and been done with me. Hell, they might have left me in the ditch and drove around looking for a phone to call the sheriff. And you know what that would have meant.” He shook his head slowly. “No, you're not ordinary."
The warm feeling lapped over her as though she had lowered herself into a heated pool. She was sure it showed. She had to be rosy from one end to the other. How could he do that to her? And him ... of course he didn't like what had happened. How could he? But he didn't resent her, didn't grumble about who was wearing the pants, didn't try to blame his helplessness on her. Actually, he was facing up to his situation pretty well. She tried in vain to imagine how she would react if she'd lost her past. Would she do half as well?
She sighed. Back to business. “Uh ... your name."
"Mark."
Her eyebrows shot up. “You remembered?” Grinning, she snapped her fingers. “See? Just like that."
He shook his head. “How do you like Mark?"
Her grin sagged. She shrugged.
"Okay, what do you like?"
"How about Charles?"
"Charles...” He said the name as if he were tasting it. “I like Charles all right, but I can't stand the thought of being called ‘Chuck.’”
"If I don't call—"
He shook his head. “Let's try something else."
"John?"
His response was immediate. “No, I'm not John. Nor John Doe either. No matter what's on the hospital paperwork, I'm still not John."
"All right, already. So, how about ... Richard?"
His face still, he stared at her. She had a strong sense that he wasn't seeing her, but was looking at something inside himself. The hairs stirred on the back of her neck. This was creepy. “Is that your name?” she whispered.
"Richard,” he murmured. His eyes grew large. “It sounds ... yes, it feels right.” He murmured the name again. “Richard.” His throat moved as he swallowed. “Yes,” he said finally, “I'm Richard.” Then, his eyes shining, he shouted, “Hey, I'm Richard. Richard!"
Necks craned as the other people in the coffee shop stared at him, some smiling, others—Leslie saw one man shrug. It is a big deal, she wanted to say. How would you like to lose your identity? She switched her attention back to Richard.
"Good,” she said. She felt her smile stretch across her face. “I like Richard."
He stared at her as if fascinated.
She grew fearful. What was wrong? “What is it?"
"When you smile like that, it's as though you'd been light up inside, and you're so beautiful you steal my breath away."
The warm tingle that bubbled up in Leslie's chest spread through her like wildfire. She knew she had to be glowing. She put her hands in her lap to hide their sudden trembling.
"Richard...” she began, and had to stop to take a deep breath. “You must be careful saying things like that. They could get to be addictive in a hurry."
He leaned back in his seat and eyed her smilingly for a moment. Then he became brisk and animated. “My name is Richard and I have a secretary.” He grinned broadly. “I didn't know that when I woke up this morning."
Her heart in her throat, Leslie asked, “What is your wife's name?"
Surprised by the question, Richard stared vacantly as he looked for an answer. He shook his head. “I don't think I'm married.” He squeezed his eyes closed, his big hands clenched as he strained to remember. Finally, he gave up. “I don't know."
"Then perhaps you aren't married,” Leslie said. Even as she said the words, she wondered why that seemed to matter so much.
"No,” he said, “I don't think I am.” He touched his chest. “At least, I don't feel anyone in here. Surely I would, wouldn't I? I thought I'd already told you that."
"Yes, you did, but you might not feel ... I think we ought to be sure."
He stared up at the ceiling of the cafe. “If I am, she's probably wondering where I spent last night. My secretary won't wonder where I am until Monday...” His gaze flicked down to meet hers. “This is Saturday, isn't it? Don't tell me I've lost some days as well as my memory."
She nodded. “Yes, it's Saturday. The Saturday after Thanksgiving. It'll be Christmas before you know it."
"Thanksgiving. That means it's November. Now how do I know things like that, but not my name? Saturday. It seems strange, but I have this feeling that I've got so much to do. I ought to be working to get it done. Even on Saturday. And that's nonsense, isn't it? When do I take time to live?"
Yes, she thought. Exactly. “I know what you mean. I could have gone to the office today too, but..."
He glanced at her. “Is that my doing?"
She waggled a finger. “Vanity, vanity,” she said. “Yes,” she confessed. “I'll admit it, I'm fascinated by this situation. The potential for...” Her voice trailed away. The danger I bring to you is so great—I should tell you good bye and never see you again.
"Hell with it,” he said. “I'm going to the police. If they can't help, we'll go to the TV stations and ask them to let me appear long enough to ask for help."
She caught the ‘we,’ and smiled. “On the evening news, perhaps?"
"Or maybe run my picture.” He sketched a picture's caption in the air. “'Can You Identify This Man?’”
"I've been thinking about that,” she said. “I'm not so sure it would be a good idea."
"What do you mean? It was your idea. At breakfast you said tha
t would be the quickest way to learn who I am."
"I know, but thinking it over—sure, you might learn who you are soon enough, but you'll also be telling whoever hit you on the head and dumped you in the ditch that you're still alive. What do you think they'll do when they learn that?"
He raised his hand slowly to his head. “Yeah.” He was quiet for a moment. “But, damn it,” he burst out, “I've got to do something. I can't go on like this.” His mouth turned down in derisive self contempt. “I asked you out to dinner this evening. Yeah, sure. Do you realize I can't even pay for the coffee we're having right now?"
She tried to ease his mind. “I don't mind treating you to a coffee break, Richard."
His expression filled with wonder. “Yes,” he whispered, “that is my name.” He put his hand to his chest. “It homed straight in to wherever I am in here. Now I need to learn who I am, what I do for a living, where I do it.” He tugged at his clothes. “Look at what I'm wearing. Not cheap, I must be doing okay, but doing what okay? Hell, I could be a criminal, and the knock on my head nothing more than a family squabble."
"Some family."
He snapped impatiently at her. “You know what I mean."
"Yes,” she soothed. “And I agree. You need to know, but not at any price."
"There's another reason.” He hesitated. “One that doesn't make any sense at all. I'm ... I'm caught up in you. I want to take things further between us, but how can I?"
Leslie's spirit leaped at his words, then once again she hurried behind the walls she'd carefully bricked around her heart. It would be a mistake to try to take things further. It couldn't be anything real. Not this quickly. It had to be her hormones. Yes, that was it—she was just hungry for ... sex. Or maybe it was because she was lonely—she couldn't deny that. But the danger.
"Richard, I want you to understand something.” She spoke casually, hiding her feelings under a mask of cool detachment. “I'm interested in doing everything I can to help you learn who you are, but there can't be anything more between us."
"You think I'm married, don't you?"
"It really doesn't matter."
"Why? If I'm not married and you're not married—tell me why."
She looked him in the eye and told him the biggest lie she had ever told. “I don't have that sort of interest in you. Frankly, I'm not even particularly interested in our being friends."
There, she thought, that should keep him safe.
He sat looking at her for so long that she grew uncomfortable and fell to examining her nails rather than meeting his eyes. The waitress came by, refilled their coffee cups and dropped a handful of little plastic containers of half-and-half on the table, then went away again.
"Smoke,” he said.
"Mm-m?"
"That's what you're doing. You're blowing smoke. Why?"
"I don't have to tell you anything,” she said. “Who do you think you are?"
"Come on, Leslie, do you think that just because I've been hit on the head I've become stupid? Am I suddenly an insensitive clod? Or don't you think I've been listening to what you've been saying, and watching the way you've been acting? Did you think I didn't hear you when you said ‘Les and Les?'” He leaned intently toward her. “Yes, and I watched you retreat when you realized what you'd said. So I know there's something interfering, but you do have that sort of interest in us. You do want us to be friends. And so do I. There's more for us, Leslie—potential, you said—and I want to know why you're denying it now."
Tears welled up in her eyes. “So I can keep you alive,” she whispered
He blinked. “You think you'll be injurious to my health?"
"It's not funny, Richard."
"So tell me."
"I can't have a relationship like ... like the one you want."
"Like you want too,” he said.
"All right,” she snapped. “I lied. I am attracted to you. But the surest way I know for you to end up dead is for us to try to be more than casual acquaintances."
He gazed quizzically at her for a moment. “I don't want to seem critical,” he said, “but you're being awfully long on melodrama, and awfully short on facts."
"All right. Fact, Richard. My ex-husband will kill you. Fact. He's killed two men who wouldn't listen to my warning."
Richard looked at her with narrowed eyes. “Leslie..."
"It's true. Accidental deaths, so perfectly innocent, except each time he called me before the news hit the TV or the paper, and told me what he'd done. The first time I went to the police. Nothing. His alibi was perfect. The second time I didn't need to bother, they came to me. They wanted to know why two men who apparently had nothing more in common than knowing me had died. They wanted to know about my alibi. Two times he killed. Two times in six years.” She gazed fiercely at him. “You think I want you to be number three?"
Chapter Five
Richard waved away her concern. “Come on, you're not giving me much credit for being able to look out for myself."
She leaned toward him, her voice an angry whisper. “Look out for yourself?” Her words cut at him. “You can't even find your way home."
His face reddened in angry embarrassment. He clenched his fists and made a wordless sound deep in his throat.
Leslie put her hands on top of his fists. “We're in a box, Richard. Don't you see that? If you go on TV or buy an ad in the Star, I haven't any doubt that you'll learn who you are from a dozen sources, maybe in less than an hour. Okay, you'll know who you are, but you still won't have your memory. You won't have a clue as to who put you in the ditch or why they wanted you dead. Will you be so lucky the next time they try?"
Leslie leaned back, arms across her chest, glaring at him. “Tell me this. How will you know who to guard against?"
He sat still, his face hard as his gaze locked with hers. Then, gradually, he relaxed his angry fists. He began tapping a finger on the table, and finally he gusted a deep breath. “You're right, of course. Everything you've said is true. But if I hang around you, the only person I trust absolutely, your ex will find out, won't he, and I'll die anyway.” He rested his chin on his hands, staring over her shoulder for a long moment, then his gaze switched back to meet hers. “Tell me, Leslie, what do you think I should do?"
She shook her head slowly. “I wish I could be sure you're taking this seriously."
His eyebrows shot up. “Taking it seriously? We've both got the scars to prove how serious it is.” He tapped the cap he wore. “Mine are obvious, but only now am I beginning to understand the expression you carry on your face. A look I thought shouldn't be there when I first saw you this morning. Did your husband put that look there?"
Leslie's fingers rose without her willing it, touching the fine lines between her eyebrows. Even now, years later, her mind splintered into chaotic images, her heart racing with anger. Her voice grew cold, angry thoughts swirling as she recalled memories never very far beneath the surface.
"Yes, they're Alex's ... his legacy.” The words started tumbling out of her. “He started them ten years ago, just before Coleen was born. Alex and I had been married for a year. After a whirlwind courtship. I thought I was lucky. I was, well, a not very mature age twenty two then, and Alex is a very handsome man. Blond hair, blue eyes. His face is almost pretty. And he knows it. I was surprised to learn that he shaved with a straight razor. He even had a matched set of straight razors, seven of them, one for each day of the week. I never thought he'd take a chance on cutting that pretty face.
"But I really wasn't troubled by his vanity. Nor was I all that concerned about his temper, even though he slapped me once before we were married. He was so apologetic, so remorseful, that he was able to make me feel almost guilty for having provoked him."
Leslie held up her hands. “I know. I said I wasn't very mature, remember? Anyway, after we were married the apologies stopped. But the slapping didn't, and after a while he started using his fists. Then he started using them a lot. But I still had something
to learn about his temper, and I learned it that day, ten years ago. We were having dinner, and I made a teasing remark about his spending so much time in front of his mirror, getting every hair perfect..."
Alex's face was ugly as he jerked her to her feet and slammed her against the wall. His heavy fists smashed into her chest, her breasts, but never her face. No, never her face where anyone could see. She bent and turned away to protect the child in her womb, and he cursed her and rained blows on her back. And the anger that been building in her finally changed to cold determination.
"I could hear him grunting with effort as he kept hitting me. He was careful to keep his fists away from my face, where the marks would show. He knew I'd try to conceal the bruises to save my pride, just as I'd been doing right along.” She shook her head slowly. “But not this time. Next morning I could hardly move. I took a hot shower to loosen up, gathered all the cash I could find in the house and went to the office."
"What?” Richard looked at her incredulously. “After that, you went to work?"
"I'm an attorney, Richard. I work in the firm of Meriwether, Holcomb, Whitby, Pratt. I started there as a paralegal while I finished Indiana University law school at night. They liked me. I worked hard, made good decisions, and so, one after the other, each of the four partners privately offered to stake me to full time law school. I never accepted. I told them I wanted to do it myself.” She lifted a shoulder in a little shrug. “Just stubborn, I guess. But they respected me for that, enough so that when I passed the bar exams they invited me to join the firm.” She smiled. “They think I'm a brilliant courtroom strategist.” A deep sigh. “Anyway, when this business with Alex happened..."
She walked down the hall to old Harry Meriwether's office, told his secretary that she needed to see him, then waited. Admitted to his office she told him, “Sir, I want you to represent me in a divorce."
Meriwether shook his head. “Leslie, you know we don't do divorces."
"Yes, sir, I do know, but we do personal injuries, and I have ... I have something you must see. Will you call in your secretary, please?"
"Now, Leslie—"